


Lethal Dose Countdown

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Poisoned Sam Winchester, Poisoning, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 02, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: God he wished he'd never walked into the bar.The boys wind up forced to do a job due to blackmail threatening Dean's life. Dean's not too concerned about it, but that changes as soon as they discover they poisoned the wrong brother.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 168





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal in March 2010 for a charity auction.

Two blocks away from the bar, Dean's phone rang.

It wasn't normally something he worried about; his phone rang for a lot of reasons. Girls he'd met, people calling about hunts. Bobby, Ellen, Sam.

Except he knew this time that it wasn't any of those people. The caller was an unknown, and Dean's hand scrambled to answer it. Ash had worked on it, tracing back to where it was coming from. It wasn't going to change plans now, but damn if it wouldn't help Dean so he could pound the shit out of whoever it was.

He whipped the phone up to his ear. “I'm here, now what.”

“In the building across the street is the business. It's up on the second floor. The thing is roaming around the same floor, making it a tad difficult. We just want you to clear it out so we can get in there.”

“And the antidote?” Dean asked through clenched teeth.

A deep, throaty chuckle answered him. “You'll get it, once the poltergeist is gone and we've gotten what we want. I'd hurry, if I were you: like I've said before, it was a heavy dose. You were a big man.”

The line went dead, and Dean cursed in every way he knew. For a minute, all he wanted was to make his own call, to see how Bobby was handling things back at the motel. To see how Sam was.

But calling was stupid and was only going to take up time, time that Sam was running out of.

He pursed his lips and headed across the street, duffel slung over his shoulder. Two days before, and none of this had been an issue. Sam hadn't been dying.

God but he wished he'd never walked into that bar.

Two days before found the brothers in a small bar. Chicago wasn't a city they had associated with good memories, but there was a job to do, one they couldn't ignore.

“Two beers, please, not the bottle,” Dean asked, grinning at the bartender. She was tender, all right, and her coy smile meant that she knew it. Sam rolled his eyes, but that was par for course these days. Still, the fact that the kid was with him meant something. He'd actually come of his own free will, too. (Okay, so maybe poking and pleading with him to come with Dean wasn't exactly free will, but he hadn't held out for as long as he usually did. Either way, win win.)

“Nothing hardcore?” Sam asked. Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Sam frowned at first, then pursed his lips. “Ah. Can't be too drunk to score.”

“Sam, please,” Dean said, hand over his heart in mock offense. “They're ladies. But now that you mention it, that is a really good idea,” and he finally grinned wide. Sam sighed and shook his head, but he smiled too, and god but Dean had actually missed his brother's smile. Kid was too uptight these days. Thus the bar scene.

Maybe a girl for Sam, too? Plenty of beautiful ladies in the bar, considering its size. And quite a few of them were throwing glances at the brothers. Dean returned a couple with his best heated gaze, and a few of the women blushed. A few more of them upped their own heated gazes with obvious pleasure.

Tonight was gonna be a good night.

The beers were placed in front of them, and Dean nodded his thanks to the bartender. “Thank you, beautiful,” he said, and with a laugh she moved on.

“What was the reason exactly for wanting me here tonight?” Sam asked pointedly. “You don't need a wingman. You haven't needed one since I was sixteen.”

“I'm actually not here to score tonight,” Dean finally said with a sigh. He glanced over at his brother, who was frowning again. “Just here to hang out.”

_With you,_ went unsaid, but the frown lines disappeared from Sam's face, and a small, pleased smile emerged. “Chick flick,” Dean muttered under his breath, but it was true. They'd all but wrapped up the case, only had the dig and burn tonight. Then they'd be out of there tomorrow morning, and the grieving nephews of Mrs. Salishan would never be seen again.

“To our being awesome,” Dean said, reaching for a beer. Sam snagged the drink first, though, and Dean glared at him.

“What?”

“That was mine,” he said, raising his eyebrow. Not that it mattered, since they were pretty much sitting together on the bar, but the drink had been pushed closer to him. Which meant it was supposed to have been his.

Sam gave him an incredulous look. “It doesn't matter,” he said, voicing Dean's thoughts, then took a long pull just to prove his point. Dean glared but finally took the other drink.

“We didn't toast.”

“You were too busy bitching.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They spent the better part of the next hour leaning against the bar, finishing the beers and watching the rest of everyone else. There was a frat party in the corner, a game of darts going on, and a few couples in the booths. The jukebox was playing something modern, but Dean actually sort of liked it. He figured he'd ask Sam later what the song was.

The beer wound up being pretty strong, surprisingly, and Dean was comfortable with the one. “Really?” Sam asked when he declined a refill. “Just one?”

“It's actually strong,” Dean admitted, fishing for cash. “Why, yours isn't?”

“No, mine's really strong, but I just thought that was me,” Sam said. Dean chuckled even while Sam slapped at him, and then they headed out into the night air. The lack of sirens made for a peaceful night, and Dean fished for his keys.

His cell phone rang, and he dug for that with his other hand. He didn't even look at the screen, just hauled it up to his ear even while his other hand sought for the elusive car keys. “'Ello?”

“You've been drugged.”

Dean stopped searching, eyes automatically starting to search the area. “Who is this?” he demanded, and his tone was enough to bring Sam to a halt as well.

“Someone who needs a job done. You were recommended. We will give you the antidote to the drug if you do the job.”

“Kinda hard to do a job if you give me a drug that needs a frickin' antidote,” Dean hissed, and Sam's eyes flew wide. He was leaning up against Dean a moment later to listen in, and pushing him halfheartedly out of the way did no good.

“Within six hours, you will come to discover that we are not fooling with you.” The voice was low and deep, and had a faint touch of electronic to it. “After six hours, we will contact you; I'm sure you and your brother will be more amenable to working for us at that point.”

“You leave my brother out of this,” Dean snarled. Bad enough they'd drugged him, but if they'd touched Sam-

“He'll be left alone, _if_ you take the job. We will contact you in six hours, countdown starting...now.”

The line went dead. “What do you mean, drugged?” Sam asked, panic in his voice. “Dean?”

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean muttered. How the hell had he been drugged? And how the hell had they gotten a hold of his cell phone? Had to have been a contact of theirs, for whatever job they wanted done.

“What did they say?”

One look at Sam told him that his brother was two seconds away from hyperventilating or exploding. “Hey, calm down,” Dean said. “We'll be fine. They...want us to do a job or something. Said they'd call back in six hours. If we do the job, then we'll get the antidote. Everything'll be peachy.”

Sam didn't look convinced. “I don't like this. We need to figure out who they are. We've got, what, six hours before they call back again? We'll get this figured out, I swear, Dean.”

“Whoa, whoa, easy Rambo,” Dean said, watching Sam switch from panicked mouse to determined warrior. “We'll do the gig, we'll get the payout. Easy in, easy out.”

“We don't know what the job is. We don't know what they want. We don't know if they'll keep their word, because they're human, and humans aren't contractually bound to keep their word, Dean.”

Dean pursed his lips and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, pulling him in hard enough that it startled Sam and brought him nearly nose to nose with Dean. “You listen to me,” he said quietly. “I'll be _fine_. For all we know, they're playing us. We've got six hours and a ghost to take care of first. So we move, handle that, then figure out what's going on. You freaking out on me here isn't gonna help either one of us. All right?”

Sam's eyes widened in horror. “We're not gonna do the salt and burn now! We have to call Ash, figure out what's going on-”

“We take care of the spirit,” Dean insisted. “You can call Ash on the way, but we need to finish this up before tomorrow, or we could have another dead person on our hands. Besides, we've now got...” He glanced at his watch before turning back up to Sam. “Five hours and forty-five minutes. So let's move, all right?”

Sam looked less than thrilled. Dean couldn't say that he blamed him. The entire situation felt wrong, had a bad flavor to it.

Flavor. His eyes widened. “Dean?” Sam asked, rising back up to panicked again.

“The beer,” he said, and Sam got it immediately. “That's how they did the drug. I told you the beer was too strong.”

“Maybe the bartender knows who did it, saw someone sniffing around,” Sam said, and before Dean could stop him Sam was flying back towards the door. He managed to catch Sam's elbow and haul him back before he could go in there. “Dean-”

“No,” Dean said firmly. Sam glared at him, trying to wrench his arm free, and Dean only held on tighter. “ _No_ , Sam. We deal with the spirit.”

“They could still be in there-”

“Yeah, and you running back inside could put you directly in their line of fire,” Dean snapped. Sam finally paused at that, giving Dean the leverage he needed to pull Sam even further away. “I'm not risking it.”

“But you're willing to risk you,” Sam said unhappily. He looked torn between moving back inside and staying out with Dean, so Dean quickly made the decision for him.

He tugged Sam towards the Impala and gave him the keys. “You can drive. We'll do the spirit and then come back once we've had time to plan.” It wasn't like he wanted to risk himself, but the thought of Sammy in danger just wasn't going to happen. And he knew his brother was going to tie this into Dean's being tired after dad had died, Dean didn't care about what happened to himself, but truthfully? He knew he could handle whatever these punks wanted to throw their way. He'd be fine.

So long as they left Sam alone, they were fine. And to do that, Dean had to get his little brother away from the bar.

“I don't like this,” Sam said, even as he slid into the car.

“I didn't think you did,” Dean said. Sam pursed his lips but started the Impala, and if they took off a little faster out of the parking lot, Dean was gracious enough not to say anything.

He did check his watch, though. Five and a half hours. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to pretend he didn't care.

The digging was taking forever. Sam didn't think they'd ever dug so slowly before. One glance at his watch showed that it was three minutes since he'd last looked, and they still weren't as far down as they needed to be.

The headache wasn't helping, either. Sam winced as it flared briefly before he pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt...off. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Later. He'd deal with it later. When Dean's life wasn't on the line. He pursed his lips and dug in with vigor. “How're you-”

Dean cut him off with a glare. “I told you not to ask me that again. And I told you, so far I'm fine. I'm not worried.”

“You should be,” Sam snapped. “Jesus Dean, they could've given you anything, and you're just blindly digging like you never got the phone call. Aren't you the least-”

Dean's shovel landed with a bang, and they both paused. “We about six feet?” Dean asked.

Sam stood up straight and fought the urge to wince again when his body protested and his vision blurred. _You picked a great time to get sick, Winchester,_ he berated himself. He glanced over the top of the hole, able to scan the area without a problem. “Six feet,” he agreed.

The sooner they had the body out, the better.

They made quicker work out of opening the coffin and preparing the remains. Dean climbed out first, with Sam watching to see if there was any weakness in his brother's movements. He did look fine, though. Maybe Dean was right and they had spiked the wrong drink.

Sam jumped for the top with his hands and began pushing himself up. Halfway there, his vision suddenly blurred out again, and his arms gave beneath him. He could hear a high pitched buzzing in his ears, like rushing blood, and there was a distinct lack of anything beneath him. The sensation of falling finally reached his mind, even as the world kept spinning.

An eternity of this – more like a second, logically – and Sam was caught and yanked out. Sounds came through again, and when he opened his eyes Dean was staring over him, a frown on his face. “You okay?” he asked.

“Just slipped,” Sam said. Last thing Dean needed to do was worry about him. God, they could've given him a poison that didn't even have an antidote, and Sam felt his stomach turn. “Let's do this and fast, okay?”

His brother was still frowning even as he stood and grabbed the matches. “Yeah, yeah, I know, we gotta get back to the bar. But honestly, Sammy, I'm feeling fine. I'm not lying to you.”

Hope sprang in Sam's chest, even as he fought to sit upright without arousing any more of Dean's worry. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dean said. “As much as I hate the fact that someone else got the dose that was meant for me...” His face was open and honest with his relief for a moment. “Pretty glad it's not me.”

“Me too,” Sam agreed fervently. His guilt for an innocent, unknown man was shadowed by his own relief. Even if his headache was dampening the moment. “For all we know, they were aiming at a different person, not even you in the first place, and they got your number by mistake.” The matter of _how_ they'd gotten Dean's number still troubled Sam, but gift horse, mouth. He wasn't looking. Dean was in the clear.

Dean finished with the gasoline and lit up. “I don't know. Maybe. They knew about my having a brother, though. Makes me think it was me that they were trying to recruit for whatever nut job they had planned.” The match was tossed almost carelessly, and the bones lit up.

Clean-up was easy, even though Sam's world was quickly spiraling into pain. This wasn't just a regular headache. No, this felt more and more like a migraine, and a bad one. God, he hadn't had one in ages, and the prospect of a night filled with nausea and pain wasn't one he relished. And Dean was gonna figure it out eventually. Which meant he was gonna have to fess up.

“Hey, Dean?” he started as they walked back to the car. Every step had to be carefully figured out and placed, and even moving his head a little made everything swim. He wasn't sure he'd make it back to the motel.

“I'm _fine_ , Sam,” Dean said with a sigh, not even looking back at Sam. “And we're not going back to the bar. It's been five and a half hours, and they said I'd feel something to let me know I'd been drugged, and I don't feel a thing. Whatever beer they drugged, I didn't drink it.”

Sam's world narrowed, but not in a pain filled way. Beer. They'd drugged the beer. Dean hadn't taken the beer in front of him: he'd had to take the one closer to Sam, because Sam-

Sam had taken Dean's beer.

He shut his eyes and leaned on his shovel for a long minute, trying to get his bearings. His brother's footsteps stopped, then came back, growing louder as he approached Sam. “Sam?”

“You didn't drink the beer,” Sam said hollowly. The headache was pushing to the forefront, and even with his eyes closed the pain was mounting. His ears were starting the high pitched buzz again, and Sam felt himself swaying.

“No, I didn't, obviously-”

“You didn't drink _your_ beer,” Sam tried again. His voice sounded far away, and when he opened his eyes, his brother's face was a welcome relief. “They spiked the right beer, Dean.”

Dean's face slowly slid from confusion to realized horror, and the pain took over. The world tunneled to a single point, the pounding and buzzing in his ears was too loud, too much, and Sam's eyes fluttered shut, his body already sinking to the ground.

The last thing he was aware of was hitting a soft but firm surface before everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
Dean still had his fingers on Sam's pulse when the cell phone rang. Driving down the road at nearly eighty miles an hour didn't allow for answering the phone, driving, and keeping a hold on the lone thing that told him Sam was still breathing.  
  
He sorted by priorities. Sam was top, not ending up in a ditch was second. Still, he took his hand away from the steering wheel long enough to grab the cell phone and jam it between his shoulder and ear. “Hello?” he answered tersely.  
  
“Have the effects reached you yet?”  
  
Dean tightened his grip on the wheel and fought to keep from pushing down harder on Sam's pulse. “Yeah, they've reached me,” he said, swallowing hard. “My brother. You drugged my brother, you sonuvabitch.”  
  
“That is regrettable, but we ensured that the drink would be set in front of you. Your brother was not to be involved in this in any way.”  
  
“The antidote,” Dean snarled. His knuckles around the wheel were almost white. “I need the antidote, now.”  
  
“It doesn't work that way,” the voice said, still aggravatingly calm. “Do the job, then you'll get the antidote. You have twenty minutes to think it over, and your answer will be a simple yes or no. I'm warning you, however, that the drug was in the strongest concentrated form you can get of it. Your brother would have two days before he would succumb to the drug.”  
  
Dean went cold, stomach twisting. “We will call back in twenty minutes. Think about your answer wisely.” The line went dead.  
  
The motel finally came into view, and Dean pulled his head away from the cell phone, letting it tumble off his shoulder to the seat. He yanked the car up to the front of the room and quickly pulled himself out. The motel door was flung open before he was hurrying back for Sam. His pulse was still there, rapid but there, and Dean tried one more time to rouse his brother.  
  
“Sam. Sammy, c'mon, wake up for me.” Taps against his pale cheeks did nothing. God; barely twenty minutes since the cemetery and the kid was still out for the count.  
  
Carefully he slid Sam out of the car. It took all of his strength but he managed to carry him bridal style. Lifting him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry would attract attention, and Dean needed to see Sam's face. Needed to make sure he was still breathing.  
  
The adrenaline surge he'd had when Sam had fallen in the cemetery was still going strong, enough that bringing Sam in wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought it would be. He kept Sam curled up against him, head resting against Dean's shoulder, breath ghosting over his neck. Keeping Sam's long legs from banging into things was more of a difficulty, but Dean merely lifted his arm higher under Sam's knees.  
  
He reached the bed furthest from the door and gently laid Sam down. Already his brother's forehead was damp, and his cheeks were flushed with fever. He didn't feel too warm, but if the drug was as bad as they were making it out to be, it would get worse.  
  
On their own accord Dean's fingers searched and found Sam's wrist, grasping tight to find his pulse. Still there, still breathing. Dean wasn't sure _he_ was breathing that well at the moment. He let himself stare at Sam for a long moment, on how his chest rose and fell, before he headed back out to the car to get the phone.  
  
He should've known. He should've known the minute Sam stumbled trying to get out of the grave. The kid had looked flushed then, but Dean had thought it was the exertion from digging. Sam had been digging as fast as he could in order to get the job done faster. Dean hadn't been worried about it; a tad concerned when Sam had nearly slipped, but the job had been done easily and then they'd been walking back to the car. He hadn't been worried about himself. He'd been fine, and he'd felt fine, and the world had been fine.  
  
Then Sam had made him turn around, made him listen to the truth, right before he'd slid towards the ground. If Dean hadn't caught him, the shovel handle would've fallen right after him, and a head injury wasn't going to help Sam right then.  
  
Nothing was going to help Sam now. Nothing but the antidote.  
  
He locked the car up before coming back inside, eyes automatically seeking out Sam. Still breathing. For now.  
  
His fingers clenched the phone until he thought they'd break. Thirteen minutes until they called back again. He already knew his answer; it was a no-brainer. Getting Sam help, keeping Sam safe, was the number one priority.  
  
The phone was pulled out, buttons dialed quickly. It only took two rings before the line picked up. “Better be a good reason you're callin' me at three in the morning, boy.”  
  
“It's Sam,” Dean said, dispensing with pleasantries. Bobby would get it.  
  
Sure enough, the surly, not awake voice instantly woke up. “What happened?” Bobby barked. “Dean?”  
  
“I don't know. There was a voice on the phone, telling me I was drugged, but it got Sam instead-”  
  
“Wait, people? You mean _humans_? And what do you mean, drug?”  
  
“They're calling back in ten minutes,” Dean said impatiently. “They need me to do a job. If I do the job, I get the antidote.”  
  
“How bad is Sam?” Bobby said, not even missing a beat. Didn't know what was going on and the guy still knew the right questions to ask.  
  
Dean glanced back over at Sam. Pain lines were slowly creasing his brow, and Dean bit his lip hard. “Unconscious. In pain. They won't say what the drug is; all I got was a two day frickin' time limit before Sam-”  
  
That wasn't even a point he was going to start talking to himself about yet. He shut his eyes tight and forced himself to breathe. He'd get Sam out of this. It was his job as big brother. Protecting Sam at all costs.  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
He took a deep breath before opening his eyes and focusing again. Seven minutes. “Chicago, the Lakeside Motel. Room twelve.”  
  
“I'll be there as soon as I can. Just...hang on. Get as much info as you can on these morons. Call me if Sam gets worse.”  
  
He closed his phone and reopened it immediately, dialing the second number. It took ten rings before a sleepy voice finally answered. “Yo, the party's still here.”  
  
“Ash, it's Dean,” he said. Five minutes. “I need your help with something.”  
  
It took him three minutes to fully wake up, but only forty seconds to figure out what Dean needed done. “We're at the-”  
  
“Don't need to know where you are, man,” Ash said. “I can figure it out from my comfy bed. Put me on a threeway when they call; you know how to do it?”  
  
Dean's answer was cut off as a beep filled his ear. He forced himself to breathe when he saw the 'Unknown' status as a call waiting. “It's them. I'm setting it up now. Don't say _anything_ , Ash. I mean it.”  
  
“Hey, I'm more professional then that,” Ash protested, even as Dean's fingers worked the phone's menu. The line beeped twice more before it was all set up and Dean answered.  
  
“What's your answer?”  
  
Dean gritted his teeth, stealing one last glance at Sam. “Yes,” he said firmly.  
  
Like there'd ever been a choice.  
  
“There's a business not too far from the bar. Unfortunately, my companions and I found our process with that business...hampered by something beyond our control. It never made itself seen, but we were tossed around, and items were thrown. We were unable to conduct our business.”  
  
Spirit or poltergeist; Dean would have to research to figure out which one it was. “You want me to take care of this thing? That's it?” he asked. “You don't need me to help you 'conduct your business'?”  
  
“Your only involvement is to remove the problem,” the voice said, and for the first time in all the calls, the guy on the other end of the line sounded annoyed. “Remove it and we'll give you the antidote.”  
  
“Which business?” Dean said desperately, not sure how long Ash needed to trace the call. If he even _could_ from over three hundred miles away. “I need to do research.”  
  
“We'll contact you with more information at a later time,” the voice said, and before Dean could sputter out a response the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a long minute, then slowly brought it up to his ear again.  
  
Ash was ready and waiting. “Dude, man, they sound pretty hardcore.”  
  
“Tell me you got something,” Dean said through gritted teeth. They were going to draw this out. He couldn't go into the offices during the day, which meant he'd have to wait for the next night, and they knew it. They were drawing this out and making Sam suffer.  
  
“I got something,” Ash replied, sounding more confident than Dean could've hoped for. “Enough to know that they're in Chicago.”  
  
Dean didn't breathe. “Now, wait, wait a minute,” Ash said, as if knowing what Dean's reaction would be. “Wait a minute. I can narrow in on it from there. Y'know those stupid TV shows where they say, 'Yeah, I got a trace' and it happens in an instant? It doesn't work that way unless you've got a high level clearance, and I don't. _But_ , I can work with what I've got pretty fast, considering.”  
  
“How fast?” Dean managed.  
  
Ash didn't answer right away. “Ash, how fast?”  
  
“Uh...coupla hours? A day?”  
  
Dean was going to pass out. “The hell do you jump between a couple of hours to a _day_ , Ash?” Before he could continue his tirade, though, there was a muffled moan from the bed. “I'll call you back,” he said, hurriedly closing and tossing the phone onto his own bed. He sat next to Sam on the bed, watching as his brother slowly came to. “Sammy?” he asked, trying to breathe calmly. Sam would be fine. Sam'd be _fine_.  
  
Slowly hazel eyes appeared, looking unfocused and reflecting pain. “Sammy?” Dean tried again, softer this time. “Wake up for me, dude.”  
  
“D'n?” Sam mumbled, still blinking blearily. “Wh-”  
  
A moment later Sam was trying to push himself up. “Whoa, whoa, take it easy,” Dean said, and he knew that his worry was bleeding into his tone but he couldn't help it. “You went down hard, dude. Lay back for a bit.”  
  
“M'okay,” Sam managed. He sounded more with it, at least, and he licked his dry lips with a grimace. “They call?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, and something in his voice made Sam open his eyes. “They called.”  
  
Sam raised his eyebrow as best he could. “And?” he prompted when Dean didn't continue.  
  
“Poltergeist,” he told him. “Or spirit, I don't know yet. It's keeping them in the way of their 'business', though, and they need it cleared out.”  
  
Sam began to answer, then stopped himself, eyes still on Dean's face. “There's a reason you can't just go out and take care of it,” he said softly. Dean pursed his lips but nodded. “How long?”  
  
“Tomorrow night at the earliest,” Dean said. Sam bit his lip but finally nodded. “I swear I'll take care of it, Sammy,” he added urgently when his brother didn't say anything. “I've got Ash working on it, and Bobby on his way down. You're gonna be fine.”  
  
“I know,” Sam said with a weak smile, but he didn't look as sure as he sounded. Dean didn't blame him. Monsters and demons, they had patterns they could follow. There was always a sense of surety.  
  
People? People were crazy.  
  
Sam winced and stuttered a breath that sounded too much like a whimper for Dean's tastes. “Sammy?”  
  
“M'okay,” Sam repeated, but he sounded faint, and the words this time rang false. “Just...hurts.”  
  
“Head?” Dean asked, already halfway off the bed. Something, anything to do. Anything beat sitting there unable to do a damn thing until the bastards called back.  
  
Sam managed a nod, fingers already starting to press into his scalp. “Hold on,” Dean ordered, hurrying into the bathroom. He couldn't give Sam anything for the pain, but a cool cloth would help relieve some of it. Help bring the fever down, too.  
  
“Just hold on,” he whispered.  
  
He had a feeling the next forty-eight hours were going to be worse.  
  
  
  
The pain wasn't letting up.  
  
The dizziness happened the instant Sam tried to move, so he kept to the bed. Like he would've had the strength to move, anyways: Sam felt like a day-old kitten, muscles and limbs trembling. This was bad. This was the worst they'd had, and he knew it. Dean knew it.  
  
The headache had slowly started progressing out towards the rest of his body. A constant ache filled him, and every now and then it made him jerk in the bed, sending a massive wave of knives through his brain. Twice now he'd caught himself whimpering, and every time he jerked or made a sound Dean would come running.  
  
Not that Dean was far in the first place. His brother was half perched on the chair at the small table, half ready to run should Sam need him. His eyes would skitter across whatever he was looking at on the laptop, then slide over to Sam, then back again. The rate they were going, Dean was going to wind up with that furrow in his brow permanently.  
  
Another cough built itself in his chest, and Sam winced as it came out, shaking his whole body and spiking the pain even further in his head. One cough always led to another, and before Sam could help himself he was coughing nonstop. The constant barrage in his head was leaving him lightheaded, and even as he gasped for air knives descended and stabbed mercilessly into his brain.  
  
He hadn't even realized he'd blacked out until he came to, gasping for air. “Easy, easy, just breathe,” was the mantra around him, and it took him another half second to realize he was sitting upright. His support shifted slightly, bringing him closer to something that smelled faintly of dirt and lighter fluid. Dean.  
  
“Should take a shower,” he tried to say, but he lost half of it to another round of coughing. A hand gently but firmly pressed against his back between his shoulder blades, and it helped ease the coughing a little.  
  
Something hard pressed against his lips, and he opened his mouth instinctively, knowing it was a cup. Water, cool and perfect. He gulped it down to settle the urge to cough, and when the cup was pulled away, he was able to take deeper breaths. Cool wet tracks made their way down his cheeks, and he closed his eyes, spilling more tears. God.  
  
“Sammy? You okay?”  
  
Nodding was going to hurt too much, so he settled for raising one trembling hand and giving a thumbs up. Dean snorted above him. “Liar,” he muttered.  
  
“Y'asked,” Sam grated out. Another jolt of pain shot through him, and he jerked, whimpering and hating himself for doing it. “D'mmit,” he mumbled.  
  
If Dean's arms tightened any further, Sam was going to lose circulation. “Bobby's on his way,” he said again. “And I'm doing research. Not just on the business, but the drug, too. Ash is working on tracking down the sons of bitches, and I'll find them. You're gonna be fine, I swear to god.”  
  
And god help the bastards who'd drugged Sam. He felt sorry for them for a single moment, and then it faded. Whatever business they were conducting was criminal at the least, and the fact that they were willing to hurt another human being to get what they wanted? Kinda struck them out in Sam's book.  
  
The fact that they'd hurt Sam was the only check mark Dean needed in his own book. The wrath of a big brother was terrifying sometimes. The wrath of Sam's big brother? Was legendary. He let himself smile for half a minute.  
  
The knock at the door made Dean tighten up a fraction more. “S'Bobby,” Sam guessed. It sounded like the steady knock Bobby would have.  
  
Sure enough a moment later, Bobby's gruff voice came through the door. “Dean? You boys in there?”  
  
“M'all right,” Sam promised, even though it was an utter lie. He was anything but all right. God, the hell had they put into the beer?  
  
Dean glared down at him but began carefully sliding him back down the bed. “Stay put,” Dean ordered. “I mean it.”  
  
Like Sam was going anywhere. Still, he gave a small nod for Dean's sake, grimacing as the pain ratcheted up another notch.  
  
The door was opened and shut quickly, and Bobby made his way over towards Sam first. “How you holdin' up?” he asked softly. God, if Bobby was using that type of voice Sam had to look pretty bad.  
  
“M'holding,” Sam whispered. “Just...get the antidote?”  
  
“We will,” Dean promised. His shoulders had come down a little by Bobby's presence, and Sam let himself close his eyes. Bobby would help handle things. Sam could try and rest. Dean wouldn't wear himself into the ground. They'd be fine.  
  
Still, the anxiousness in the pit of his stomach wasn't going away. Day one was almost done and no word from the mysterious callers. This was bad, even on their scale of things.  
  
  
  
Three in the morning, and still no call. They were toying with him, and Dean damn well knew it. He bounced his leg continuously, picking at his lips while he glared at the cell phone. It refused to ring upon his mental command, and he shifted his gaze over to Sam. His glare faded to something softer, something he'd deny any other time if Sam wasn't sick.  
  
The kid was out for the count, for now at least. He coughed every now and then, his brow creasing in pain. His trembling was still minute, but his skin had paled even further, and the sheen on his brow was visible even from where Dean was sitting. Temperature had risen, slowly but surely.  
  
Bobby came back into the room, ice pail in his hand. “Nothing?” he asked.  
  
Dean didn't bother replying. He kept his eyes on Sam, who murmured something in his sleep and shifted uncomfortably. Anyone else would've thought he just had the flu. Maybe that was what they'd given him.  
  
The ice pail was set onto the nightstand between the two beds. “You slept at all since they called?” Bobby continued, grabbing the plastic bags from the other bed. “Way Sam explained it, you both were diggin' a grave. Might make you tired.”  
  
“Not sleeping,” Dean said firmly. He could feel Bobby leveling a glare at his head, but Dean ignored him, watching Sam with a frown. His brother was getting too restless again, and Dean pushed himself over to the bed. Without a word a bag was handed across to him, and gently as he could Dean laid it down across Sam's forehead.  
  
Murky hazel gazed up at him through slitted eyes. “It's all right,” Dean said quietly. It wasn't, none of it was, but Sam was depending on him. And it _would_ be all right. He'd make it all right, so it wasn't really a lie. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”  
  
Sam flinched a little and swallowed back a sound. “Hurts,” he whispered, and the admission was ten times worse than any sound Sam could've made. “Dean...”  
  
“You're gonna be fine,” Dean swore. Sam twisted a little more, face tightening in pain, and Dean wished for the hundredth time he could give him something for the pain. God knew what an aspirin would do when combined with the drug, though.  
  
It took a few minutes, but Sam finally drifted back off, face still creased with deep furrows. Dean dipped one of the towels Bobby handed him into the ice pail, then pressed it gently against Sam's neck. Kid felt warmer than before. Dammit.  
  
The phone rang. “Go,” Bobby said, already taking the cloth. It took two seconds to get to the phone, then barely another second to press the button.  
  
“Are you ready?”  
  
“Yes,” Dean bit out through gritted teeth. “I can go now, just...just tell me where to go.”  
  
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Dean gripped the phone hard enough to make the phone squeak under the pressure. “Very well,” the voice said, and he could've sworn the person on the other end was _smirking_. “We can also be ready tonight. Go to the bar you visited before in two hours. You'll receive further instructions there. Remember: if the job isn't finished, then you won't get the antidote.”  
  
“I'll finish it,” Dean swore, his voice low and trembling with rage. Two more hours. That would put him closer to five in the morning, right about when people started showing up to work. “And I'll be there.”  
  
The line went dead again. Dean shut his eyes tight and tossed the phone onto the table before digging his fingers into his hair. Two more hours Sam had to suffer.  
  
Those sons of bitches wouldn't know what hit them when Dean found them. Dean would leave them in-  
  
Suddenly Sam cried out and lurched off the bed. Bobby barely yelled Dean's name when Dean flew back over to Sam's side. Sam's eyes looked almost glazed over and his body shook harder than it had before. He was pushing almost frantically up and away from the bed, but didn't get much farther than where he was laying. “Hey, take it easy, take it _easy_ Sammy,” Dean said, catching his brother's shoulders and gently pushing him down. “Talk to me: what's going on?”  
  
“Burns,” Sam hissed, then whimpered, trying to push himself up again. “I-it burns, hurts, it...”  
  
Just as suddenly as he'd leapt up, he slid back down to the bed, the fight gone out of him. “Hurts,” he mumbled, tears leaking from his eyes. The look he gave Dean was pure little brother, begging and pleading with him to make it better. “Dean,” he whimpered, shivering beginning in earnest again.  
  
Dean could feel himself starting to shake, and he shut his eyes tight against the burn. Two hours was way too long. “I got you,” he finally said when he reopened his eyes. He gave Sam the best smile he could manage. “It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine.”  
  
Cold comforts, all of it. But Sam gradually began to settle down, though the tears didn't dry and the shaking didn't stop. His eyelids began to droop again, and gently as he dared Dean ran a hand through Sam's hair. It was damp from sweat and there were flecks of dirt in it from the grave digging. God, it hadn't really been all that long ago.  
  
And it couldn't be over fast enough.  
  
  
  
All Sam knew was pain.  
  
Not the knives pain. The pain in his head had escalated now to a constant throbbing that made him feel like being sick. There was a low rushing sound in his ears that wouldn't let up, and it left him feeling disoriented. Like he'd needed help with that.  
  
Everything else, though...  
  
Fire. It all burned, and he remembered waking up and crying out earlier, sure that the bed had been on fire. Dean had stopped it, put it out, and he'd drifted off, still in pain. Always in pain.  
  
The fire was pouring through his veins, a constant burn that flooded through his entire body. Even as he fought to get the covers off, though, his body protested and begged for them to stay on. The fire left him parched, but the cold, the cold took his breath away. Maybe it was the smoke. Oh god, was there smoke?  
  
“Shhh.”  
  
Bobby. Dean was gone, but Sam didn't know why. Sun crept through the curtains, but Sam's stomach wouldn't tell him what time it was. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. It all sounded equally nauseating.  
  
Cool water slid down his forehead, then down his cheeks to his neck. The fire didn't offer a respite, and it felt like the water was burned away instantly. “Please,” Sam begged, not even sure what he was begging for. Relief from the fire that left him sore and burning alive. Relief from the chill that rattled his bones and his lungs. Relief from the pain that left him dizzy.  
  
“Easy, son. Take it easy, Sam.”  
  
The sound of a door opening caught Sam's attention, and though it was shut quietly, one look at his brother told him it had taken a great deal of effort to not slam it as hard as he wanted to. The look on Dean's face as he stormed over into Sam's view was one of murderous rage.  
  
No antidote.  
  
“There's three businesses in the area that've reported problems lately, but all three could be chalked up to electrical issues, which, according to Stacey at the bar, has been happening lately. Power outage last month blew something, I don't know. And frankly, I don't give a goddamn at this point. Those fu-”  
  
“He's awake,” Bobby said, and instantly Dean went from killer to carer. He hurried to the side of the bed, and up close, Sam could see the circles under his brother's eyes.  
  
“Hey Sammy,” Dean said, and his attempted smile hurt to see. “How you doing, or is that a stupid question at this point?”  
  
“Burns,” Sam whispered. He pulled in a ragged breath, feeling the cold wrap itself around his lungs like iron bars. “S'hard to...to breathe...”  
  
The alarm and fear on Dean's face grew to epic proportions. “I was actually gonna call you, right before you blew in here,” Bobby said, but his voice was muffled from the roaring in Sam's ears. Everything faded out even as the pain crescendoed, and Sam succumbed to it once more.  
  
When things blurred back into focus, Dean was still there. He had a handkerchief in his hands now, though, and even as Sam blinked he gently wiped something wet away from Sam's cheeks. “You back with me?” Dean said.  
  
Sam gave one slow nod. “Dunno how long for,” he admitted, then coughed once. His lungs didn't expand as far as they had before the cough, and Sam shut his eyes tight against the panic that fought to rise. He couldn't risk panicking, not now.  
  
But his body was shutting down, piece by piece by piece. The thudding and roaring in his ears was linked to his pulse, and he knew it had to be flying pretty high. His chest hurt right where his heart was, as if his heart had been pounding for too long. His lungs kept closing down further and further, and the drug was doing something to his head. Pain, burning, always burning even as he shivered.  
  
He was dying.  
  
When he opened his eyes, Dean was breathing heavily and blinking rapidly. It was the most afraid Sam had ever seen him, and he wanted with every fiber of his being to erase the fear from his brother's face.  
  
The best he could do at the moment was to pull his hand out from under the covers and lay it down palm up. Dean took hold without hesitation, and his firm grip still couldn't stop the fine tremors that ran through Sam. “Entering a chick-flick moment of your own free will?” Sam joked, but Dean didn't rise to the bait for once.   
  
“Just breathe,” Dean ordered. Yeah, like that was going to help. But Sam knew his brother was lost and trying to do anything that would help, so Sam gave another small nod. “How bad is it?” Dean hazarded a moment later.  
  
Sam dredged up a weary smile. “You don't want to know,” he whispered. Dean bit his lip. “M'sorry,” he added, coughing again. The band didn't tighten around his lungs that time, and he took it as the small blessing it was.  
  
“For what?” Dean asked, bewildered. “For taking the beer? Because that's not your fault-”  
  
“No, for...m'sorry that m'not sorry for taking the beer,” Sam managed, and Dean glared at him fiercely.  
  
“Don't you say that. Don't you _dare_ -”  
  
“Better me than you,” Sam said, completing his thought. Dean looked angry enough to hurt him, and Sam shut his eyes. Wasn't like it wasn't true. Sam couldn't change the way he felt just because it made Dean upset. “M'sorry, 'cause you don't wanna hear it, but...s'true.”  
  
 _I'll always take the bullet for you,_ Sam thought, and was pretty certain Dean had heard the message through his words loud and clear.  
  
Silence fell. He had no clue where Bobby was, and the clock was behind him, which meant he was still out of luck when it came to what time it was. Sunlight could be anywhere from eight in the morning to five at night.  
  
When he coughed again, the bands tightened around his lungs, and the fear of not being able to breathe came pounding back through him. Even through all the pain, the burning, the chills, the worst was still the clock ticking down ever so slowly until he wouldn't be able to pull any air in.  
  
“I'm not letting you off that easy,” Dean said suddenly, catching Sam's attention. Dean's eyes glistened but his face was nothing but resolve. “You hear me? I'm not letting you off, and I'm not letting you go. I'll get the antidote, I promise. If it's the last thing I do, I'll get it.”  
  
 _And I'll take the bullet for YOU,_ was the easily transparent message. Sam didn't like it and he let his eyes tell as much, but Dean shook his head. “I mean it,” he said. “You don't get to die on me, Sammy. Not now, not after...not after everything.”  
  
Somewhere, Sam could hear a cell phone ringing. Dean tensed up, his hand gripping Sam's. “Go,” Sam whispered. Wasn't like Dean was leaving the city, state, or even room.  
  
Still, he felt bereft when Dean let go to answer the phone. The sooner he answered, though, the better. The sooner this whole nightmare could be over.  
  
The fire was rushing through him fast again, leaving his stomach twisting and his muscles sore and trembling. It was too hot and he was too weak, and his head wouldn't stop pounding. Words were spoken, but Sam didn't hear them. He shut his eyes and clutched at the sheets on the bed.  
  
 _Please, god, hurry._


	3. Chapter 3

  
Bobby had returned around five with dinner, and Sam had been out of it yet again. The older hunter had missed the latest call by only ten minutes or so, but Dean still hadn't calmed down by then. _Sorry we couldn't make it last night: it was too late. Tonight we have to move in, so you have to do the job by then. If it's not done, there's no antidote. Wait for our call tonight: we'll be calling early._  
  
Bobby had taken one look at Dean and ordered him to eat something, then to stay the hell away from the phone and help Sam. It'd worked, surprisingly, though Dean had still been furious deep inside.  
  
Eleven at night, and he'd gotten the next call. Directions had been given to go two blocks down from the bar and to wait for the next call. As soon as they'd hung up Dean had called Ash for a status update. “Narrowed it down to a block,” Ash had told him, before adding, “Dude, man, you like, owe me. I had to hack into all this difficult stuff-”  
  
“That probably took you all of five minutes,” Dean had interrupted. “I'll bring you good stuff when we see you next, all right?”  
  
“Good times at the party,” Ash had agreed, and he'd given Dean the directions. With the location of the assholes in his pocket, knowing they had no reason to hold their end of the bargain, Dean had started to make plans of his own.  
  
He shrugged into his jacket now, nervous and anxious to get this done with. “Call me if he gets worse,” Dean ordered, though he knew the best thing he could do for Sam at the moment was get the damn job done.  
  
Still, Bobby nodded. In the silence now, Dean could hear Sam's body gasping for air, and he bit his lip hard. Sam was trembling, and a bright sheen of sweat was a permanent fixture on his forehead. It wasn't helping, though. It wasn't enough. Sam's body was shutting down, and Dean had never been more aware of the time as he was now. Two days. They were at two days.  
  
“D'n?”  
  
Even as Sam began to open his eyes Dean was there. “Hey,” he began, only to be cut off by Sam's weak cough. The gasps for air became shorter, and Dean bit his lip to the point of bleeding.  
  
Sammy was dying. He couldn't ignore that anymore. If he wanted to fix it, then he had to go, but leaving Sam's side was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.  
  
Sam's eyes met his, and he knew Sam was thinking the same thing. “They call?” he whispered, and Dean nodded. “You leavin'?”  
  
His nod was slower this time. Sam aimed for a smile but it fell short by a mile, and Dean couldn't just leave when Sam was like this. It went against everything he had ingrained in him, and even telling himself that by leaving, he could save Sam, did nothing.  
  
He brushed damp hair away from Sam's face when it looked too close to his eyes. “Just hang on for me,” Dean said, though it sounded closer to pleading. “I'll be back before you know it.”  
  
Sam nodded. His brow had been furrowed since the pain had started and if anything, the furrows only deepened. “Hurry,” Sam managed, and Dean reluctantly pulled away.  
  
Leaving was easy as soon as he got outside. Not because the distance from Sam helped. Rather, because he had a new goal in mind, and he wasn't the taking-prisoner sort.  
  
No. They were going to pay.  
  
He parked away from the arranged meeting place and waited where he was supposed to. When the call came through, he anxiously grabbed for his cell phone to answer. The details were dealt with, and the call ended as abruptly as the rest. Anger and fear churned together under his skin, and he forced himself to move forward. Ash had done his job. Bobby was doing his job. Sam was hanging on, even while he was dying, and Dean tried to force his brother from his thoughts.  
  
It was his turn now to do his job, and it had to be done seamlessly.  
  
God he wished he'd never walked into that bar.  
  
It wound up being one of the businesses and not the bank, which made security easier. From the call and his research he knew the trouble had started on the second floor. Where the major offices were stashed, with more than likely a few safes too.  
  
He made his way upstairs and immediately heard the shrieking from the EMF detector. Dealing with a poltergeist was easy if you knew what you were doing, and Dean definitely knew what he was doing. He made it quick, pushing all the hex bags into the corners of the office where no one would be the wiser for it.  
  
The last bag he hesitated on, letting his eyes scan the office. Whatever they wanted, it was up here somewhere. He left the hex bag near the last position and began to roam around, scanning desks and offices. Whatever it was, Dean was going to make sure they didn't frickin' get it.  
  
The last office in the corner was locked. Picking it was easy, but he glanced around the room instead of stepping inside. Who knew what alarms and whistles would go off if he did. In the back wall there was a large painting that looked completely out of place, and Dean snorted. Large safe, then. “Way to hide it,” he muttered.  
  
The door was left open, and as he turned back, the air began to pick up as the poltergeist caught onto his plan. Papers flew and chairs were knocked over, making a mess of the entire place. He waited until it had destroyed enough before he slammed the last bag home. The poltergeist left in a shriek and a hurry, a bright light growing from the middle of the room.  
  
When Dean could see again, his phone began to ring. They _were_ watching him, then. He reached for it, already grabbing the duffel and taking off towards the stairwell. “It's done,” he said without looking.  
  
“Good. Once we've done our business, we'll leave the antidote for you in a remote location. We want to make sure that the place is truly secure.”  
  
Even though he'd expected it, even though he'd planned for it, Dean still felt a lurch of panic and anger. “No, the deal was that I'd do the job and I'd get the antidote. My brother's _dying_ -”  
  
“Regrettable. The sooner you leave us to conduct our business, the better it will be for...Sam, correct?”  
  
Dean stopped in the stairwell, fingers clutching the duffel. Everything had been nameless up to this point, everything had been vaguely impersonal. But somehow, their saying Sammy's name ignited a greater fire inside of Dean. “Don't you dare,” he breathed, low and hard. “Don't you _dare_.”  
  
“Sam will be fine if you do what you're told,” the voice said, and the smug tone made Dean see red. They were playing with him. “Leave the building the way you came. Don't bother with the alarm: we'll take care of it.”  
  
The call ended, but Dean was already heading towards the door. He left, letting himself look as angry and frustrated and afraid as he felt. They were watching, and he needed them to think they still had the upper hand.  
  
He made his way to the Impala and took off, making various turns until he was certain no one was following or watching him. The Impala was spun around once he was in the clear, and he took off towards the block Ash had told him about. Dean had the upper hand now, and those sons of bitches wouldn't even know what hit them.  
  
There were two buildings on the block. One was still in obvious use, while the other was boarded up. Three guesses as to where they were hiding, Dean thought grimly. He parked the car far back enough that the rumble wouldn't be heard, then exited carefully. The duffel came out again, and he dug underneath the hex materials for the several weapons he'd packed, taking the .45 and a shotgun. He made his way to the building, feeling every bit like he was on a hunt. Careful steps, silent approach. Gun in his hand, knowing how his target would go down.  
  
The boards on the front door were all strategically placed to give the appearance of the door being nailed shut to the frame, but in truth the boards were nailed only to the door. It opened easily under his hand, and he entered without a sound. The bottom room was dusty and empty, electrical outlets bare. There was light ahead of him from the stairwell, and he took steady steps towards it.  
  
From above him, he could suddenly hear noise. He used it to his advantage and hurried to the base of the stairs. Once there, he could hear individual voices, and one he recognized as the person behind the calls. His fingers tightened around his gun. The sonuvabitch had played with Sam's life like it was nothing. That asshole was the reason Sam was laying back on a motel bed, dying-  
  
It was that thought that urged Dean upstairs as quietly as he could. Every lesson in stealth he'd been taught was employed, his eyes trained down the scope of the gun in his right hand. Three different voices could be heard, and as he cleared the stairs, he could see them by the light of an electric lantern, all busy looking at something on a table. Each one of them had their back to Dean.  
  
He could've used more finesse. He definitely could've handled it better. But when all he could see was his brother collapsing in the cemetery, when all he could hear was Sam's desperate gasps for air...well...  
  
Dean thought he did okay.  
  
The first one went down without a sound, the butt of Dean's first gun a firm imprint on his skull. The second one dared to fight, and if the gun went off when it was aimed at the guy's foot, well, Dean hadn't meant to do that at all. Really.  
  
The last one he kicked away from the table with the shotgun in his left hand. “Surprised?” Dean asked, keeping the gun trained on him. The man was wheezing but still pissed enough to glare at Dean, even as he was hunched over and trying to catch his breath. “Not expecting me?”  
  
“I guess you are the best,” the man said, and this one had been the one behind the calls. Dean forced himself to not pull the trigger.  
  
“Who did you get our names from?” Dean asked. When the man didn't answer, Dean strode over and decked him hard enough to put him on the ground. “Who?”  
  
“C-Carlson,” the man gasped. “We brought it up that we needed help, and he just mentioned your names. Said you were the best at what you do.”  
  
Carlson. Hunter, Dean was pretty sure. Probably had truly meant them well. He'd check with Bobby later.  
  
Now, though. Now he bent over the man and pressed the handgun tight against his skull. “The antidote,” he growled. “Where is it?”  
  
The man raised his hand towards the table. Dean didn't look behind him, but he did pull himself up. “Look, you were supposed to get it,” the guy said once Dean was off of him. “Not Sam. The job would've been over in a night because we figured the strength of the drug would scare you, but-”   
  
The man barely had time to take in another breath to finish before Dean had a boot pressed to his throat. The sonuvabitch had dragged it out on purpose. Just to make Sam suffer, make them both suffer. To leave Dean strung out emotionally because Sam was in pain, agony, _dying_. For that, there was no forgiveness.  
  
“You forget our names,” he said coldly, when his finger didn't try to pull the trigger. “And if I ever, _ever_ hear you say my little brother's name again, then I'll make you forget yours. We clear?”  
  
Only when the guy nodded did Dean release his boot. Once he was a fair enough distance from the guy did he glance back at the table. A small vial was resting on a shirt, full of a clear liquid.  
  
He was ready for it when the guy came at him. He swung his arm around and the shotgun connected with the guy's head. The man went down with a cry, and Dean couldn't help the kick he landed to the guy's ribs. There was a distinct crack heard, and the man shrieked once before passing out.  
  
The guy with the bullet in his foot was still whimpering, but he gave Dean a wide berth when he headed for the table. “Make sure he remembers all of that,” Dean told him, and the guy nodded quickly. The vial he took with almost reverence, and a quick scan at the rest of the table showed blueprints for what was probably the business and files on a certain type of safe.  
  
If there was a fourth guy, he'd be on his way back. Dean didn't have time to deal with him. He had other things to do.  
  
He flew down the stairs, vial tucked safely in his breast pocket, and ran all the way back to his car. He was already dialing as he started the Impala, his heart's furious pounding finally being noted. “How is he?” Dean asked when the line picked up.  
  
“Bad,” was all Bobby had to say. The “Hurry,” he added didn't matter.  
  
Dean slammed his foot down on the accelerator and hurried.  
  
  
  
Sam came to when the room was just starting to fill with light. His arm was the first point of soreness he registered, especially from his elbow. It felt tender and bruised, and he winced as he pulled the limb back under the covers.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
After a few bleary blinks Sam found his brother crouching down next to the bed. “How you feeling?” Dean asked.  
  
He licked his parched lips and took stock. His chest was sore, the muscles around his heart aching. There was an all-around soreness permeating through his body, and he still felt a little cold. His head was also still pounding slightly, the after effects of a migraine. Not great would be an acceptable answer.  
  
But the fire was gone. The massive chills had also disappeared, and the bands around his heart and lungs were gone. “Think I'll live,” he said instead, and Dean gave a small relieved sigh.  
  
“Yeah, you will. We weren't sure if we'd gotten the antidote into you in time, but you started breathing better yesterday, so we hoped.”  
  
“How long was I out?”  
  
Dean's relief faded. “It's been two days,” he finally said. “What hurts? Bobby's pretty certain we can give you pain relievers now.”  
  
“Think what would be a better question is what _doesn't_ hurt,” Sam groaned, but he managed a smile while he said it. “I think there's a few hairs on my head that don't.”  
  
“Beat your body to hell and back, kid,” Bobby chimed in from somewhere behind Sam. He twisted slightly to look and found Dean's hands there to help. The older hunter looked older than his years, but he gave a genuine smile when he glanced at Sam. “You had us pretty afraid you weren't gonna make it.”  
  
Sam swung his gaze over to Dean. His brother had his emotions written all over his face for once, a clear indicator that something had gone seriously wrong. “I'll be okay,” Sam said softly, and Dean gave a tight nod. Dean would be in the frame of “have to see it to believe it” for awhile until he was convinced that Sam was truly all right.  
  
For right now, though, he was in full big brother mode, and nothing Sam did or said was going to change that.  
  
Funnily enough, Sam didn't find himself minding.  
  
“Job go okay?” he asked instead. It'd obviously gotten done, but poltergeists could be mean, and if his brother had been distracted...  
  
To Sam's surprise, Dean chuckled. “Could say that,” he said casually.  
  
“The cops were tipped off by an anonymous source as to where they could find the crooks who'd attempted to break into a local business,” Bobby explained, a grin on his own face. “Whole office was trashed. They found the asses in an abandoned house. Two were unconscious, one was whimpering, and a fourth showed up while they were arresting the others.”  
  
“You didn't kill them?” Sam teased.  
  
Dean's returning smile was a smile, but there was still an undercurrent of rage beneath it. “Trust me, I wanted to. It took everything I had to leave them breathing.”  
  
“And one of them was barely doing _that_ ,” Bobby muttered under his breath. Dean didn't look the tiniest bit apologetic, and Sam was strangely okay with that. Somehow, being poisoned and nearly killed took a lot of his sympathy for them away.  
  
Bobby stood from the small table he'd been sitting at. “I'll head out in a few, swing by the Roadhouse on my way. You want me to give Ash anything?”  
  
“Bottle of whiskey,” Dean said. “The good stuff. Gimme a minute and I'll get you cash for it.”  
  
Bobby gave a dismissive wave as he headed into the bathroom. Dean turned his attention back to Sam, and now that he was more awake, Sam could see the dark lines underneath his brother's eyes. “When was the last time you slept?” Sam asked.  
  
Dean shrugged. “You need sleep,” Sam said with a sigh. “And you probably haven't had anything remotely healthy in the past...god knows how long. You can't live off of cheeseburgers and coffee all the time, as much as I know you're aiming to do it. What?” he asked when Dean kept staring at him.  
  
His brother stared for a little more, but his lips slid into a small, open smile. “Just...glad you're okay,” he admitted quietly. “Losing you's not an option, Sammy.”  
  
Sam gave a quick smile. “You won't lose me. Not while you're here. Remember?”  
  
For a minute Dean's smile broadened, and there was gratitude and happiness and love in his gaze. Then he ducked his head and swatted gently at Sam's shoulder. “Chick flick,” he said, and Sam graciously didn't point out who'd started it.  
  
His brother _had_ saved his life, after all.  
  
He shifted slightly and winced as pain flared across his chest. “Sam?” Dean said, instantly alert.  
  
“Just sore,” Sam told him, patting his arm. His arm once again free from the covers, Sam could easily see the bruise on his elbow, and he was betting there'd been a needle behind it. He'd always bruised with needles. “Gonna be sore. My heart was pounding pretty bad for awhile, Dean.”  
  
“I'll get pain relievers,” Dean said immediately, already rising. “Should try and put something in your system, like juice or something to get your sugar levels going. Bobby ran and got a few things from the grocery store not far from here, so...”  
  
Even as Dean talked Sam let his brother's voice drift around him, and closed his eyes with a smile. Sore, still in a bit of pain, but alive, thanks to a stubborn brother that wouldn't quit. Dean was alive and would probably sleep tonight, knowing Sam would be okay. Four criminals were safely in police custody.  
  
Not the best they'd ever been. But they were together, and that made it well above the worst they'd ever had.  
  
“Apple juice or orange?”  
  
“Apple,” Sam replied, and smiled.  
  
END


End file.
